


Revolving

by Abecedary



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Desperate Sherlock, Experiments in John's Kitchen, Frustrated Sherlock, John is Not Amused, M/M, Masturbation, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 01:24:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8691073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abecedary/pseuds/Abecedary
Summary: Sherlock takes out his frustration on John one morning but takes it a little too far and reveals too much.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in the middle of writing a long Fic thats become a bit of a quagmire, so i needed to write this little short one as a bit of light relief. Turned out not so light...
> 
> I apologise for any mistakes.  
> Always love comments! xx
> 
> NOTE; I have changed the heinous mistake of Sole to Soul! God that was annoying to read!!! :D xx

Part 1.

 

“Why is this shit all over the kitchen table again, Sherlock?”

“What ‘shit’ would that be, John?” Sherlock snarled from the sofa. All John could see were his pale, bony feet hanging over the edge of the armrest. 

“This shit, Sherlock.” John waived his hand, despite knowing Sherlock couldn’t see him. “These distinctly non-kitchen items.” 

Strewn across the table where John was attempting to put his plate of buttered toast were jars of dirty water, river water maybe. About 20 of them, some open, others with their lids screwed down tightly. Blotting paper strips, in varying states of muddiness were laid out between them. “We had a deal Sherlock!” John tried.

“Did we.” Not a question. His voice was harsh this morning, John flinched.

“We did. You told me you would keep the messier experiments to Bart’s, or at least the bathroom if I agreed to sort the Greenacre files. I sorted the Greenacre files!” Johns voice rose a little at the end.

“And what a fine job you did, John.” That sounded about as far from a complement as it was possible to be.

John slid one of the jars across the table to free up just enough space to rest his plate.

“Don’t touch them” Sherlock shot up from his place of the sofa and stalked towards the kitchen. His movements were feline, dangerous. John refused to budge his plate as the black shape of his friend, (Friend he reminded himself), approached.

“You putting your feeble mind toward playing secretary for half an hour barley competes with my experiments, John” Sherlock spat. He was in his pyjamas, baggy and well worn, hanging loosely off one sharp hip bone. On any other man they would have softened the hard edges of his stature but on Sherlock? They didn’t touch the sides. He looked deadly.

Johns fist clenched tightly at his side and he stared intently at the wall behind Sherlock. That had stung. But he knew, he knew how Sherlock got when things were going badly. He lashed out, and more times than he could count he had been on the receiving end when they were alone at 221b. He had also learned that he had to stand his ground. Sherlock would be sorry later, he wouldn’t say it of course. That would be ridiculous but he would show it with a cup of tea or a trip to the shops for milk and custard creams. John forced his fist to unclench as he talked himself down from reacting.

“I wasn’t playing secretary, Sherlock.”

“Your always playing secretary John, running around after me, behind me. You revolve around me”. John could see Sherlock’s pulse in the hollow of his long, tense neck. White as porcelain. 

It was an effort to keep his stance neutral right now, he knew he was probably failing. Unexpectedly John felt the prickle of tears rise up. Too close Sherlock, too close.

“I do not…revolve….around you.” His voice was a darn sight calmer than he felt. It came out cold, a little stiff maybe but he was blazing inside. 

Sherlock barked out a humourless laugh and took a step forward. His top lip was quivering, arching into a sneer. This was going further than normal. 

“Admit you revolve around me.” Their eyes met now, and stayed locked together. 

“Don’t do this Sherlock.” John said in a low voice.

“Don’t do what, John?” Just as low.

“ Push me.” John lost his battle with his hands and they curled into two tight balls.

“What if I want to push you?” Something minute was shifting in Sherlock’s eyes. They darkened a fraction. His shoulder blades slid down his back a little, altering the position of his arms. He was readying himself.

They were silent, like two animals poised to attack. John was still under the impression that he could calm the situation down, that he could get Sherlock to see sense but something had changed and he wasn’t entirely sure he knew how.

“Tell me you revolve around me.” Sherlock said slowly.

Johns mind was flickering in and out of understanding. His mind both dulled and sharpened by the rage he was keeping hold of just under the surface. Sherlock hadn’t moved any closer but he felt like he was smothering him, baring down on him. It wasn’t anger that was rolling of him now it was something else entirely. Something deeper, darker. John was completely transfixed watching the ice of Sherlock’s iris’s being consumed by the black abyss of his pupils. 

“Tell me.”

Johns mouth was completely dry, even if he wanted to answer he wasn’t sure he’d be able to use his voice right now. Instead he just continued to stand his ground against the force in front of him. He was flooded with adrenalin, and that was the only explanation he was willing to admit too for the fact that he could feel the blood pooling down low in his groin and the first twitch of his cock against the inside of his jeans. 

“Tell me.” Sherlock pressed him again. The sneer across his full lips had faded into a sardonic smirk, an pale pink tease. John’s eyes dropped momentarily down to trace over them. It was an effort to drag them back up. John brain was shorting out now, was this intentional? He wondered, somewhere deep in the only part of his struggling brain that was still online, whether Sherlock had found a new way to cripple him emotionally. If he had found out how John craved him. That was too much. That hurt too much.

Without feeling the decision happen, John surged forward. One hand found the front of Sherlock’s t-shirt, bunching it into his fist and shoving the taller man backwards against the wall, hard. It obviously took Sherlock’s by surprise as much as John because he huffed a winded breath out as his back slammed against the cold kitchen wall, followed a split second later by the back of his head making contact with a loud crack. John pushed upwards, his other hand finding its way to the hip bone just visible over the waist band of the loose pyjama bottoms, pinning Sherlock to the wall with his full strength. 

“Fuck you” John spat, his face closer than he realised to Sherlock’s. Sherlock had closed his eyes on impact and now as he opened them slowly John caught a glimpse of something desperate in there, hope under cutting the shield of fury, it took his breath away shocking him enough that he instantly let go of Sherlock, like he had been burned. The hope flashed into a dark sadness before finally hardening off again. John stepped back, looking at his hands.

“I’s, I’m sorry….I….” He stuttered, and then watched as Sherlock smoothed his t-shirt down and push himself off the wall to standing.

“Don’t be.” Sherlock said, more quietly than John had expected. He looked tired, defeated maybe. All the rage from a few moments ago was gone and john was left with the inkling that perhaps it hadn’t really been there in the first place. John ran a hand through his hair, his heart was still hammering violently under his ribcage. The only thing he could think to do was pick up his plate with the now cold toast on and replace the moved jar of mud. He didn’t look back at Sherlock before walking out of the kitchen and retreating to his room. 

 

\--------------------Part 2

15 minutes later, John found himself standing outside Sherlock's bedroom door. He had resisted that long, long enough to eat the toast, regret not making tea to go with it and for his brain to reset to 'functioning'. The glimpse of... what hell was that he'd seen in Sherlock's eyes? He felt an overwhelming need to apologise but if he was honest, he didn't know what for. Sherlock had been an arsehole. He had been especially cruel this morning. The horror that he should have been feeling over what had been said to him, just wasn't there. Well it was, the thing about being nothing more than a secretary had stung but... what he was struggling with was, for all intents and purposes, John had been called out on his feelings for Sherlock but... it didn't feel quite like that. At first, yes and then... Sherlock was goading him, goading him into what though?  
Was he being tested? John had been so close to slamming his lips against Sherlock's along with his fist, and something sat uncomfortably in his chest as he remembered the look in Sherlock's eyes. 

As he stood outside Sherlock's room he could here rustling, he was definitely in there. He tapped gently on the closed door.

"Look Sherlock, I'm sorry yeah? I..." he had opened the door with out waiting for a response. "Oh.."

Directly across the room from where John stood, on the other side of the bed, Sherlock was hunched over the mattress. Both arms bent at the elbow propping him up, bracing him against the edge of the bed. He was bare chested, his head hung low. John's heart lurched, panic rising for a moment. He looked pained and yet, as John took in what he was seeing, Sherlock raised his head.

Sherlock’s shoulders were hard, strained, the tendons and muscles pulled tight across them. His long neck flushed a deep pink, mottled with effort. As Sherlock lifted his eyes to the doorway with John framed in it, he revealed the long taught line of his bare chest. His pectoral muscles straining rhythmically, the abs across his stomach pulling hard and fast. Pulsing. Sherlock was pulsing. The heat rose into John's face in an instant as he realised what he was looking at but before he could stutter out an apology and turn away Sherlock’s black eyes locked with his and he was rendered completely unable to look away. Sherlock kept his eyes locked with his as he continued to convulse against the mattress. 

“Jo..hn” He choked out.

John‘s eyes shifted across the strained form in front of him down to the thin trail of dark hair leading from his navel, heading south. His pyjama bottoms had been pulled down around his thighs and his hot, hard, leaking cock was being forced roughly against the surface of the mattress, the foreskin being dragged back with every thrust. John's eyes shot back up to Sherlock’s face.

“John, God…. Joh…n” Sherlock breathed and closed his eyes. He dropped his head and his dark curls bobbed, he shifted his weight to change his angle and John watched as each muscle, pulled so tight, rippled across the form. With his head hung down John could see the pale span of his shoulders, working as hard as the rest of him. He watched like it was slow motion, noticing every minute detail. John gasped in a breath realising belatedly that he had completely stopped taking in any air. His heart hammered mercilessly under his ribs, it felt heavy, each thundering beat of it thick, making him shudder and each pulse now echoed against the front of his jeans. His cock beating out its own jumping rhythm in his pants. 

The tips of Sherlock’s ears were pink, and when he lifted his head again his mouth was open. He was panting, his breath ragged. The desperation in his eyes when the heavy eyelids lifted again, cut John to his soul. It was what he had glimpsed in the kitchen. Desperation. Need. Want. For him. For John.  
Sherlock’s pace increased, his cock drilling against the surface.

“John… Jo..hn, ah, John…” He was chanting under his breath. Like a mantra, like a prayer.

He was rutting desperately, still straining, his hips hitting the side of the bed with force enough to bruise now. He began to loose his rhythm a little, his thrusts stuttering and John could tell, with what little of his brain that wasn’t starved of oxygen that he was close. He was breathing hard himself now, harsh little puffs of breath out of time with the rasping gasps of his name that came from Sherlock.

“I do revolve around you…” John whispered into the electric air that surrounded them and with that Sherlock’s whole form shuddered, convulsed against the bed, his eyes wide, never leaving John's as his mouth fell open in a silent cry. He pulsed helplessly, like the only thing holding him up was John's eyes locked with his. His seed spilling in great long strings across the sheet, as he rocked further into the white mess. 

As Sherlock’s movements slowed, a single tear streaked its way down his cheek. He bit his lower lip and turned his eye away from John, that desperate hope that had been there moments before suddenly over shadowed by something like, shame?

At that moment, John’s body decided to retreat with out any input from his brain. He took an unsteady step back out into the corridor, his hand was still gripping the handle of the bedroom door and he pulled it gently closed behind him. He just had time to see Sherlock’s curls fall back down as his head hung back down. As he turned away from the door his heart and brain lurched back to life with a bolt down John's spine and he spun back, forcing the door back open. He staggered into Sherlock’s room and still not entirely sure what he was about to do, he crawled clumsily across the bed. Sherlock refused to look up at the unexpected depression in the mattress so John leant across, gently put two fingers under his chin and lifted his face to his. More tears had fallen, the clear morning light from the window glinted off their streaked pathways down towards the corners of Sherlock’s flushed mouth. 

“I do revolve around you Sherlock. I always have”. And he pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s quivering lips.. 

 

\----------------END


End file.
